


Stone, Blood, and Bone

by angelblack3



Category: Gargoyles, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gargoyle Fusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1890 when his clan is betrayed by humans whose fear had overpowered their respect. John, and his alcoholic rookery sister, Harry, are the only ones left.  </p>
<p>A hundred and twenty years have passed, and John thinks he might be the only gargoyle that gives a damn anymore about the old ways of 'protection and loyalty'. This makes him feel very alone.</p>
<p>Until he is hunted by a not-detective that has had enough of these mysterious whispers of a "Winged Vigilante".  After all, there's no such thing as angels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can Stone Even Cry?

**Author's Note:**

> I love Gargoyles. 
> 
> I love Sherlock. 
> 
> LET'S COMBINE THE TWO. 
> 
> I have no idea where the relationship of John and Sherlock will be heading in this series, so I make no promises. 
> 
> (The rating probably won't go above teen though. I don't want to even _try_ and think about the schematics of a sexual relationship between a gargoyle and--nope. Nope stopping now.)

Pain.

Fury.

Confusion.

All of it blends together. None of it is distinguishable.

His claw snaps out instinctively. There's a short scream, and it's abruptly cut off when he presses down. The bones give way under his weight, and he roars in anger. The bayonet that had managed to pierce through his shoulder in his half dreaming, half waking state clatters to the ground. The scent of his own blood enrages him further, and he howls to the black, starless sky.

He feels a swift brush of air against his wings, and he snaps them out in defense. It hits the guard in the face, knocking him back on his feet. With another roar, he smashes the man down with his tail.

He hears the click of guns loading and snarls at the line of men, eyes glowing white. They all take a step back from the sight. Their hesitation is enough, and he slithers forward, too quick for them to aim. One by one, he breaks their necks until they fall limp onto the stone.

No more enemies are in sight. His fury recedes, to be replaced with a clear headed worry. They're being attacked. They've been betrayed. The others! They're in danger!

When he turns toward where his brothers and sisters were resting, his howl is of anguish. There, in the piles of rubble are the faces of his brethren, smashed and cut down to pieces when they were at their most vulnerable.

When the soldiers didn't have hammers, they waited until the stone began to chip away to reveal flesh, and struck them through the heart. The agony of so many savagely lost intensifies the pain in his shoulder. He scours the rooftop of the palace, praying for survivors.

Each dig through the rock tears at his hands. Just as the love for his kin tears at his soul. His rookery brothers and sisters, his elders, his friends, all of them lost to the fear of the ones they'd protected for so long.

His heart sinks into his stomach at the last place left to dig through. The rookery. The newborns.

He pulls aside the small stone opening that sectioned off the sacred area. He nearly vomits from the sight.

Eggs, dozens of them, cracked and smashed to pieces. In the light of the life giving moon, the viscous fluid of the insides spill onto the rock, making it slick. The fledglings that had hatched but hadn't matured from the nest are scattered like pebbles on a shore. He can barely make out a fetal, disgusting body that is half stone, half flesh in one of the broken eggs. It never had time to mature, and has already died from exposure.

Horrifically, the wrinkled, sticky head turns toward him at an unnatural angle. The wide, opaque eyes stare at him, judging him and his massive failure as a guardian. The tiny, puckered mouth splits open to wheeze in pain, "Why? Why didn't you save us?"

John gasps awake, and fights the nightmare as he claws his way out of his stone form. He groans in old pain and anger, his cries barely echoing down onto the London streets. Atop of Big Ben, John is mercifully, painfully by himself. As the image of the dead fledgling is pushed back into his subconscious, John raises a clawed hand to his face. He covers his eyes, his mouth, and breathes into the chill night air.

All of his nightmares are bad. But he hasn't suffered through that one for several decades. Must be the special day. A hundred and twenty years since close to his whole clan was slaughtered. Though Harry might as well be dead to him anyway.

When he still sees his kin's shattered visages behind his eyelids, John lets himself weep. He's alone after all. No one has to watch their leader shatter. 

***

He is quiet, he keeps to the rooftops and never steps out of the shadows. At this point in the evening, people meander from their responsibilities, going to seek distraction in crowded pubs and clubs that make John's sensitive ears hurt.

He watches them, alert for any trouble, but none is forthcoming. Even when his patrols take him to the seedier parts of the city, everything is quiet. Only the yowling of cats and the flutters of paper mar the silence.

John sighs, and sinks onto his roof in dejection. It's not like he wishes anything bad to happen, but the nightmare has been replaying in his head no matter how many times he tries to ignore it. He just wants to take out some of this helpless frustration on _something_.

Back when he'd still shared a nest with Harry, they'd always turn on each other. It was something of a catharsis, even if the exchanged words always did more harm than good. She would start off by telling him not to be so damned depressing, he would retort by saying she could show a little respect.

It would escalate, until eventually he would take a crack at her thievery and endless consumption of the humans' wine/mead/whiskey (whatever was in stock that she could carry in bulk). And she would retort that if he had been less naive of the humans' intentions, they might still have their brothers and sisters.

Both would glide away, heartbroken, but at least they could blame each other for while they felt so low for a little while. Instead of returning to self-deprecation. Now, all John has is his own thoughts. After Harry had nearly revealed and gotten themselves killed when she'd stolen a tankard of ale, John had put his foot down. She could either keep stealing and losing herself in spirits, or fucking own up as an adult gargoyle for once.

Maybe it was the wording, or the fear of John leaving her before she could leave him, but Harry had disappeared without a word the next night. John sometimes feels guilty that he got to keep the nest at Big Ben, while his sister had nothing.

He's torn from his spiral when he hears a woman scream. John doesn't like to think he perked up, but he did rush to the sound in a hastier fashion than normal.

He crawls from roof to roof, his rush makes his talons dig into the plaster and concrete like butter. He almost loses where he heard the noise, before she screams again yelling, "Help me! Somebody please help me!"

He jumps across, and the impact shakes the foundation of the building he lands on. The boarded up windows could mean it's empty, or just occupied by people that don't have access to phones. He hopes it's the former, he doesn't need people coming out to inspect all of the ruckus.

He sees the woman being dragged into an alley across the street. Unbidden, a growl works its way up John's throat. He works his way back, and glides to the other street thanks to a lucky updraft. He lands a little more silently this time, granting him the element of surprise.

Now, he can look down into the alley and get a good idea of what to work with. Usually, all he needs to do is intimidate, and slowly crawl down the wall before they piss themselves and run away in fear. But there are a dozen men, and all of them carry rudimentary weapons of rusty chains and planks of wood with jutting nails. Not a problem for him, but they could do some serious damage to the woman.

Again, she cries out for aid, and the man dragging her back has had enough. "Shut the fuck up!" He turns her around to slap her hard across the face. She falls to the ground from the impact, and brings a shaking hand to the cut on her cheek.

John's lips pull back from his fangs, but he stays quiet. The man is still too close to her to act.

The other men laugh at the abuse, jeering him on. The man smiles in a way that is completely repulsive and sneers at her, "No one is going to come running anyway. You're all ours now, and if you're a good little bitch, we might even let you live."

The woman cowers further onto the filthy ground, but doesn't say anything. Appeased that she's going to cooperate, the man turns around and calls out, "All right, whose turn is it to go first?"

He takes a step forward, his arms open and inviting, like he's presenting a prize. That's John's time to strike.

Quickly, he launches from the roof to knock into the boasting human. The sheer weight of him sends the man toppling, and John is sure he heard a few ribs crack.

John moves in front of the woman, spreading his wings wide in a position to protect her. The thugs have only one avenue of escape, and it's past him. They'll have to duck and run, or fight him head on.

John's really itching for the latter.

He snarls, adding to the wheezes of pain coming from their leader. For a moment, no one moves, then it's mass confusion.

Some rush forward, weapons swinging and yells of anger forming in their throats. The rest of them (the semi-smart ones) dart around them and scream into the streets.

One aims a wood plank over his head, which John easily deflects with his talon. He grips it firmly in the middle, and snaps it like the twig it is. He curses himself when that gives another human the opening to whip their heavy chain around his wrist.

The man yanks, and John stumbles forward, they whoop in triumph, and spring forward to tackle him to the ground. But it was a practiced move.

Humans never think about the tail.

When they're close enough, the appendage sweeps out, and brings most of them crashing onto their backs. John lashes out at the ones that got close enough to avoid the sweep. He keeps his claws tucked in, to avoid any serious damage. The punches he lands instantly crack bone, and they reel away, screaming in agony.

When John is satisfied that all of them are incapacitated with pain, John turns around to attempt to comfort the woman. Maybe he can carry her to a hospital, have her send a message that these scum need medical care. She's staring at him in horror, which isn't new, but she's also pointing behind him and gaping like a fish.

The searing pain across his right wing is definitely new.

It's also a tremendous trigger to send him into a flashback.

His eyes glow white when he turns to face down his attacker. The leader from earlier lets his bloody knife drop to the ground, and he backs away, his skin chalky and clammy in the sickly yellow streetlight.

Without thought, John lunges forward, claws on full extension. The man pleads for his life, and gurgles as blood fills his throat.

John rips his claws up and away from the man's stomach, and he slumps to the ground, twitching until he heaves a tiny wheeze and dies on the pavement.

The wet smack of the body brings John back to his senses, while the scent of blood still triggers his primeval rage. He shakes his head, attempting to get himself back under control. _This isn't the same. I'm not in danger. Calm. Calm down._

With a few shaky breaths, his shoulders ease back down, and his wings flutter behind him. He's not...better. But he's not about to go on a frenzied revenge kick either.

He hears sirens, about two miles in the distance. Coming closer. He needs to get out. 

He turns around to find that those that had sense and use of their legs have vacated the alley. Others have passed out from the pain. The woman is huddled by the entryway, her legs drawn up and her face hidden. She's visibly shivering.

John winces when he steps forward. He fans out his wings to check the damage. He won't be gliding back home tonight, but that's fine. All of the wind has died down anyway. It's mostly superficial, and if he treats it with his tiny first aid kit back home and stone-sleeps deeply during the day, it should be fully healed.

Ignoring the sharp jabs of pain, John kneels in front of the woman to check for damage. One of the men could have hurt her while he wasn't looking.

"Hey," John gently says, "let me look at that-"

The woman snaps her head up and screams, "Don't touch me!" She scrambles away from him, her hand extended in a futile attempt to ward him off. "Stay away from me!"

Pain that is familiar and can't be seen cloud John's blue eyes. He raises his hands in appeasement, but that only sets her off more. When John looks at his hands, he quickly hides them behind his back. They're covered in blood.

He folds his wings around himself like a cloak, and hastily retreats into the shadows when he hears the close squeal of the sirens. He claws his way up the building, leaping towards home, hearing the woman shout after him, "Freak! Monster!"

Humans. They never change.


	2. Rumors Have A Basis in Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you're wondering, I do update at the livejournal prompt more frequently than I do here. This is where I post the edited, full chapters. Here's the link if you want quicker updates. You guys are awesome! Thanks for reading!
> 
> http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=120986463#t120986463

_Bored._

_Bored. Bored. Bored. BoredboredboredboredBORED!!!_

Sherlock shoved away the newspapers onto the ground in disgust.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing that even garnered a PASSING interest.

It has been damnably quiet for a grand total of FIVE days. And Sherlock is starting to lose his mind. Which is absolutely unacceptable.

The last time he had gone this long without a decent case, he had invented a new cleaning solution that was ten times stronger than bleach. Of course, it had lost the purpose of 'cleaning' once it ate through the floorboards.

Now, thanks to an explicit agreement between him and Mrs. Hudson (she won't take away the skull if he keeps up his end of the bargain), Sherlock is left to find another way of occupying his mind besides rampant destruction.

He snarls at the lack of stimulation, and tightly grips his hair in his hands. He ruffles the dark curls, fraying and tangling them around his pale face. He leaps up from the sofa, and paces for a while, measuring out the exact surface area with just his feet.

He meticulously runs through the whole of the flat, cataloging everything. Even down to the measurement of dust on the unused counter tops in the kitchen. It hasn't changed since his last measurement from a day ago.

Next, he tosses useless books into the unlit fireplace. He throws the journal on the growth rates on sunflowers a little harder than necessary. This results in the book flopping back out, and Sherlock picks it up and savagely rips it to shreds. The fluttering paper does nothing to calm his racing mind, and he growls.

He's this close to burning the whole place to the ground just for something to DO.

Is there absolutely nothing going on in this accursed city?!

When Sherlock hears Lestrade's trademark unannounced entry and heavy gait up the steps, he quickly flops back down onto the sofa. He readjusts his dressing gown, letting it flutter around his unchanged pajamas. He stares at the ceiling, forcing his grey eyes to lose their angry glaze. He presses his fingertips to his plush lips, as if in deep thought.

For all appearances, he looks like he has been expecting Lestrade's visit for some time, and just hasn't bothered to put on clothes.

Lestrade enters the room, and he executes a very well worn sigh when he spots Sherlock's prone form. "Sherlock," Lestrade says, voice laced with the silent plea to not be too much of an arse, "it's different this time."

Sherlock doesn't shift, but inwardly his mind races, trying to figure out what Lestrade is talking about. He looks over, hoping his face portrays bored absence, while he deduces everything he can about where the Detective Inspector has been. 

Shoes and coat close to soaking. The light drizzle of the day having its affects from anyone standing outside for too long without shelter or umbrella. Outdoors crime then. And something recurring if Lestrade mentioned another 'time'. So, repeated crimes that happened outdoors, most likely violent muggings then, but why consult him about-

Sherlock brow furrows in frustration. For God's sake. Not _this_ again. He had hoped it was something _interesting_.

"Still hunting _monsters_ Lestrade?" Sherlock sneered and Lestrade sighed deeply again and gazed helplessly at the ceiling.

"It's a pity you're not a skilled writer. Your fanciful imagination would produce lucrative novels." He says the last word like it's insulted him.

"Sherlock-" Lestrade starts reproachfully, but Sherlock interrupts him, standing from the sofa in an infuriated flourish.

"No. I am not a ghost chaser Lestrade. I hunt criminals. I seek facts. Not whispers that are better suited for the fears of a child and the front page of _tabloids_."

Even his homeless network had been imploring him to seek out the infamous "Winged Vigilante". Floating through the underbelly of London was talk of a dark crusader that aided the helpless and struck terror into the hearts of the common thug. Sherlock dismissed it as the wishful thinking of the desperate, and the hallucinations of drunkards and schizophrenics. He had time for neither.

Several times other constables had turned up on his doorstep, only to be turned away with Sherlock's acidic words still ringing in their ears.

Although. Sherlock paused from his huff back onto the sofa. Lestrade saw the sudden alertness in Sherlock's back, and didn't say anything.

This was the first time Lestrade had shown up asking about it. And, his mind clicked onto the words, he had mentioned that something was different about this one.

Sherlock whirled back around to face him, and the man stared impassively back. It was a testament to his self control that Lestrade didn't break into the smirk that itched behind his face.

Lestrade was brought into it. Lestrade did not get roped into anonymous mugging cases. Lestrade was only involved when-

Sherlock's eyes gleamed, and Lestrade tried not to be too disconcerted about it.

"There's a body," Sherlock breathed.

Lestrade nodded, "Torn to shreds, starting from the stomach. Bastard looked like he'd been mauled by a bear. One of the rookies threw up when they saw him," he grimaced at the memory, "there were others, but all unconscious and breathing. Though some had some serious concussions and internal bleeding. Police were on the scene right after the dust had settled. No sign of the guy that beat them bloody."

Lestrade explained all of this while Sherlock slammed the door to his room. He dressed hastily, hanging on to everything Lestrade was saying and filing away the important bits. 

"Any witnesses?" Sherlock asked as he buttoned up his shirt, missing a few holes.

"One," Lestrade said after a pause, "but you won't be speaking to her."

Sherlock whipped open the door, and Lestrade cried out in shocked embarrassment and turned to face away. Sherlock wasn't wearing any trousers yet.

"And why not?" Sherlock curtly asked, hopping in to the black designers.

"Because she's not speaking to anyone, because she's in shock, and because you're not exactly a 'people person.'" Lestrade made air quotes, still refusing to turn around until he heard the zip.

"I can be persuasive," Sherlock protested, grabbing his coat from its hook.

"Yeah, believe me, I know you can. Still doesn't mean you're talking to her."

He followed after Sherlock, who took the stairs two at a time. Mrs. Hudson, didn't come out to greet them or see them off. She was too busy being caught up in her afternoon 'soother'. They reached the outside and Sherlock flipped up his collar against the slight chill.

He waved a cab down, and Lestrade looked at him in confusion. "Why don't you just ride along in the police car?"

Sherlock glared at him, as if he would ever lower himself to get into such a vehicle. Lestrade rolled his eyes and huffed, "Fine."

He went over to the cabbie, and told him the address as Sherlock slid into the backseat. During the ride, Sherlock's gloved fingers rubbed together underneath his chin. His arm was propped up on the door, ready to sprint out at moment's notice.

This was likely just a brutal killing, but if it wasn't. Well. Sherlock lived for the unlikely. 

They arrived at the scene, and Sherlock got out of his cab before Lestrade could even turn off the ignition. The cabbie loudly protested his unpaid departure, before Sherlock tossed a fifty note in his face.

"Keep the change," Sherlock said, striding off to more important matters. A singular ambulance was all that was left of the horde that had flooded the street from earlier. In it was a woman who was staring blankly off into the distance. The witness, obviously. Sherlock would have to try to talk to her when Lestrade was suitably distracted.

He ducks under the yellow tape and hears a sharp female voice call out, "What are you doing here, Freak?"

Sherlock's lips pull back into a simile of a smile, "Hello Sergeant Donovan. As always, I'm here for you to make my day a little brighter. Your attempts at intelligence are always amusing."

Sally Donovan didn't even fake a smile, "You're not wanted here Freak. Not that you ever are. This is just a mugging gone wrong, that's all."

"It must be your stunning personality that Anderson finds attractive. It's obviously not your brains he's after. Unless stupidity is drawn to stupidity."

Her face crinkles into an ugly frown and she opens her mouth for a scathing retort, but Lestrade rushes over before it can escalate even further, "Sally, how's the witness?"

She lingers her glare at Sherlock, but addresses the question. "Still mentally checked out."

"You two must have a lot in common then," Sherlock couldn't help but quip.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade barked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything else. The Inspector sighed, pinching his brow and waving in the direction of the alley.

"The body's that way. Go, knock yourself out, or whatever."

Sherlock walks with intent, completely ignoring the heated argument between the Sergeant and the Inspector.

He surveys the alley thoroughly. Categorizes every blood pattern on the walls and ground to which limb had been cut and which direction the body was facing. The more he looks at it, the more Sherlock's eyes gleam.

It doesn't make any sense. How wonderful.

From the assailants Lestrade briefly described, there had to have been at least half a dozen men in this alley. And judging by all of the broken and discarded weapons, the defenders would have to be either equally armed or masterfully trained in martial arts.

Yet there are no rival gangs in this area, and Sherlock would have heard of a group of hand to hand combat vigilantes. Plus, the alley may be wide, but it's not nearly large enough to accommodate approximately twelve men in a serious brawl. At least not without bleeding into the streets, where people would have noticed and called the police.

With everything filing away inside of his mind, Sherlock moves on to the slumped corpse. 

The body is on its side, face frozen in pain and horror. The rain has sluiced away the worst of the blood, though a good portion of it remains pooled around the body. Some of his organs have fallen through the gaping hole in his stomach.

Sherlock pulls on a pair of plastic gloves that he'd stored away for such an occasion. Kneeling closer, avoiding the gore, he pulls away the crimson stained clothes and looks at the wound. Sherlock's mind whirrs into glorious overdrive.

It is just as Lestrade described it, the body was ripped open from the stomach. Something very large had punctured through the vulnerable belly, and then lifted _up_ , with enough force to split the cavity up to the sternum. By the frayed edges of skin, it was with something incredibly sharp and slightly separated. In fact, Sherlock splays his hand slightly away from the body, and his eyes widen. The rips correlate with the spacing of a human hand. Albeit, a very, very large human hand.

But the only thing with this kind of strength and approximate claw marks would be a...well, a bear. No. Not even a bear. The spacing is too wide for the small spreading of a paw.

Sherlock leans back onto his feet, snapping off the latex and rubbing a hand over his lips. Perhaps an oddly shaped weapon? Like a modified sap glove? But, no. Unless the human wearing the glove was an abnormal giant, they wouldn't have had the stamina or the strength to take on this many men and then literally rip the intestines out of another.

Nothing was adding up.

Sherlock inspected the rest of the alley, trying to find anything discarded that could lead him to the perpetrator. Infuriatingly nothing. Quickly, the novelty of the scene was wearing off. He was starting to find this annoying.

Then something occurred to him. Something that had been niggling in the back of his mind. He dashed out of the alley, bumping Lestrade out of the way. The man gave an indignant squawk that Sherlock promptly ignored. Looking on either corner, and finally to the opposite end of the street, he saw what he was looking for.

A camera, the little red dot blinking merrily away at him. He whirled around to face Lestrade and said, "Please, tell me that _one_ of you had the common sense to check the CCTV."

Lestrade nodded, annoyed, "Yes, but there was nothing there."

Sherlock huffed, "Nothing to you, maybe."

"No Sherlock, I mean it. There was nothing there." Lestrade insisted, "I had someone call the department, and apparently, around the time of the mugging, the footage blacked out. Completely. It wasn't back online until this morning."

No. That was entirely...Sherlock looked back over to the camera. Ignoring the looks, Sherlock strode back and forth in front of it. Predictably, the camera followed his every move.

So then, Mycroft hadn't suddenly vanished from the face of the Earth. A pity. But this meant that either someone was _seriously_ sacked in Mycroft's employ, or the man had given the order to have the footage deleted. But why?

Sherlock would sooner kiss Donovan than ask his brother to cough up the information, but he filed it away as a last resort. 

So, the vigilante could have exited out of the normal route, but there were people arriving fairly quickly on the scene. So, someone covered in blood would have been bound to be noticed by that many officers. At least, Sherlock hopes so. Or he's single-handedly taking over New Scotland Yard.

So where could the attacker have gone? Sherlock dashes back into the alley. No fire escapes, no footholds he could have tried to climb up but-ah!

There, the spacing found on the corpse matches the deep gouges on the wall. With something like awe, Sherlock touches the marks.

Sherlock whispers to no one, "What could slice open a man's belly and then cut through brick?" The building may be old, but it's still layered with concrete. Without bothering to put on his gloves, he scrapes off some of the dried blood with his fingernails. No weapon could have done this.

"No matter how improbable," Sherlock murmured. He needed more data.

Once more, he bumped into Lestrade and motioned with his head towards the wall with the odd markings. "There's something on the back wall you might want to see."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, but when Sherlock failed to explain, he just sighed and left. Donovan followed, curiosity winning out over spiting Sherlock the satisfaction of anything.

Quickly, Sherlock went over to the ambulance housing the shivering woman. He was surprised they hadn't carted her off to the hospital yet. Though perhaps, judging by her pale face and darting eyes, she absolutely refused to leave.

One of the paramedics stepped forward, hand raised in a defensive gesture, but Sherlock flashed the I.D. he'd nicked from Lestrade when he'd bumped into him for a second time.

"Only a few questions," Sherlock said, infusing as much gentleness as he could in the few words. The man looked hesitant, then nodded. He stood tensely off to the side, ready to usher Sherlock away if the patient became too exacerbated.

"Hello miss," Sherlock soothed, kneeling down to be slightly below eye-level, "I was wondering if you could tell me what you saw in that alley last night." This morning is more accurate, but Sherlock's learned that people like to be inaccurate about these things. For whatever reason.

The woman says nothing, just continues to stare ahead. Sherlock glanced behind him, and swore in his head when he saw Lestrade and Donovan emerge, both with bewildered looks on their faces. They immediately clouded with suspicion when they didn't immediately spot Sherlock. He had to hurry this along.

"Please, miss," Sherlock said, a little more insistence in his tone, "I promise, I'll believe whatever it is you have to say. I don't think that what was in that alley was entirely...natural." And good God, he can't believe those words are coming out of _his_ mouth. But they're there. And they're not going away.

The scared eyes flicker down to him and she stutters, "It, it was. It had," she swallows, and it's all Sherlock can do not to shake some sense into the woman, "it was a-. A monster." She whispers, like she's telling some terrible secret. She moans, her body suddenly shaking terribly, and the paramedics order him to leave. That she's entirely done with questioning.

Sherlock walks obediently away, but only because there's nothing more he's going to get out of the woman. He doesn't go back to Lestrade, but keeps heading down the street, mulling over everything in his mind.

In his head, he measures the weight of the woman's words. Obviously in shock, had just been through a traumatic experience. Anything that she says is going to be held inadmissible in court at _best_ , if they don't immediately section her.

And yet. And yet, as vague as 'monster' is, it's the best explanation Sherlock has so far. He's not sure if he should punch something or whoop in excitement.

Remarkably, impossibly, there seems to be a monster lurking in his London.

Sherlock grins. Time to begin the hunt.


	3. Seeing More Than a Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the sporadic updates! Midterms had suddenly appeared to bite me on the bad bits, and it looks like homework will be doing pretty much the same. :( I'll try to update as much as possible, but thanks for sticking around! :)

It takes Sherlock a shameful amount of time to deduce where exactly the creature could be hiding. At first, it had seemed blindingly obvious to hide in the darkest corners of London. Places like abandoned tube stations, sewers, dank alleys where everyone knows that to survive, you keep your mouth shut.

But despite Sherlock's questioning and frequent bribery, his Network has absolutely no report on a massively muscled and clawed figure. That doesn't really surprise him. He would've been consulted to deal with the actual monster if anyone had sighted it.

But there were only rumors. Frustrating, impossible rumors that grew more and more fantastical the more he asked about it. According to several 'accounts', the creature ranged from a vampire, to a werewolf, to a good-hearted demon, to a fallen angel, to a bloody _unicorn_. The last one had left the homeless man in tears when Sherlock had verbally deconstructed why that was incredibly imbecilic.

When the clue finally occurred to him, he nearly slammed his head against the dirty brick in an effort to clear the (apparently contagious) stupidity from his brain.

Wings. Not all of the 'sightings' dealt with wings, but a good majority seemed rooted to the idea.

Flight. Heights. Oh, _of course_.

Sherlock dashes back to the crime scene, which is now deserted. Police tape covers the entrance, but Sherlock doesn't need to go inside. He looks around and quickly finds what he's looking for. He climbs up the fire escape, and nearly slips when the rusted metal creaks underneath him.

The top of it is a little far from the roof, so he jumps up, and pulls himself onto the top. Here, he can see directly into the alleyway. A perfect place to be to literally get the drop on someone.

He scuttles around the edges, and directly above the wall with the original claw marks is another set. These ones are even deeper, when the creature had dug in with his hands to pull himself onto the roof.

Sherlock's heart is pounding with excitement. He's like a hound on a new scent, and he whips around to face which direction the creature could have gone.

Most of these are residential areas, so the being would have had to be silent to avoid rousing an alarm. He runs across the rooftops, hoping that he's not miscalculating when he thinks the creature would have simply headed straight. That would have been the simplest thing to do with police swarming the area. 

He curses when he can no longer jump across the rooftops. Below him is a busy street, where the despair of the poor London bleeds into the prosperous market streets. Tourist shops and clothing stores abound, and Sherlock back up before someone spots him and rouses a fuss.

Last night these streets would have been much more deserted, so the 'monster' probably had no problem continuing his escape in that direction. But this will all be pointless if Sherlock doesn't calculate where the creature went.

Sherlock surveys the rooftops, wondering where it could have gone. It might be used to massive brawls, and last nights scuffle could have just been another day of the week to the creature, but it had to get tired at some point. It had to rest somewhere, lick its wounds in relative safety.

It would have to be somewhere high, somewhere regular humans didn't normally access. A place to survey all of London and to get from one district to the next in relative ease. Central London would be the best place, but that was densely populated, even at night. There was no way something could-

Sherlock's eyes lock on the tower of Big Ben. He frowns, weighing the possibilities.

It's an exceptional long shot, what with the location and the hundreds of people that pass underneath it every day. But no one is allowed into the top, thanks to unstable repairs that-

Sherlock's eyes widen. Big Ben is directly next to Parliament.

He swears viciously under his breath. _Mycroft_.

The man has, once again, managed to beat him to the best thing he's ever discovered. He wonders if the creature is even working for his brother, which sends skitters of displeasure up his spine. But, no. That doesn't fit. Mycroft would have a creature of this kind working in top secret missions across the globe, not dealing with the underbelly of London.

Maybe the creature doesn't even know Mycroft exists yet. Sherlock's grin is restored. Perfect.

He finds another fire escape (this one a little more sturdy) and hails a cab for Big Ben.

All the while, Sherlock's heart pumps away in his chest, and he feels more alive than he has in _months_. The cab ride drains him of the last of his funds (he's going to have to advertise again, something he dreads almost as much as boredom).

Sneaking in to the tower is more difficult than he had originally anticipated. There's a guard blocking the only entrance up. Really, are people so blind that they're not going to question a guard stationed to an inconspicuous area? It would be a simple enough thing to dismiss the guard on important government business, but he absolutely **refuses** to use the Holmes' name in this place.

He doesn't need to give his brother anything else to hold over his head.

He walks around, and the distraction that he quickly comes up with is crude, but effective. With as much grace as a mischievous two year old, Sherlock pulls the fire alarm.

Immediately, alarms blare, and the dusty pipes begin spewing out tepid water. People curse and scream, attempting to cover their heads while finding the nearest exit.

Sherlock steps around a corner when the guard comes rushing by, ushering and yelling directions. Sherlock moves past him, unnoticed, and gives the two finger salute to a blinking camera on the far wall.

He runs up the steps, body balanced on the edge of excitement and conclusion. He's making a lot of noise up the metal stairs, and the creature would have heard the fire alarm, but hopefully the fear of being seen in broad daylight will keep the creature from escaping from its only exit. If it tries to come down the steps, Sherlock will easily be able to intercept it.

Though how he would stop a being that can tear through human organs like tissue paper is something he's still working on.

He easily dismisses the sense of danger, and comes up to the last step. Above him is a wide trap door and...this can't be right. The door is caked with dust and grime around the edges, the lock is rusted, barely used. No one has come up here for at least two years so how-

He nearly smacks himself. Right. Of course. A flying beast that can climb up stone would certainly have no need for stairs.

He worries about the padlock. He has his tools with him of course, but they won't do any good against the rusted and possibly disintegrated gears. He grasps it and pulls down to test its durability, and it unlatches easily in his hand. Sherlock nearly crows in delight.

He pockets the thing, not wanting to attract attention of the metal clanging down the steps if the guards have already come back. He pulls on the latch, keeping one hand on the door in support. When the latch is pulled free from the wall, the weight of the door is suddenly intense, and Sherlock grunts under the pressure.

He brings up his other arm, and very carefully lowers the thing down. Grooves on the top that act as rustic steps help boost him up. It's impossible to close the door from the other side, so Sherlock leaves it down. He doubts anyone will patrol up here.

With a hammering heartbeat, Sherlock surveys the creature's supposed 'lair'. 

And there's...barely anything. In the square well lit room are a few meager possessions of a possible resident. In one well shaded corner is an old-fashioned ice box. When Sherlock opens the lid he is greeted with an array of animal carcasses. Mostly pig, though a lamb flank is thrown in their somewhere.

Clearly carnivorous, it's a wonder why he simply doesn't just eat his victims. That thought was possibly Not Good.

There are certain irregularities in the meat. The lamb's flank for instance, is barely evident on the bone. There are no teeth marks, so the creature hasn't been eating it, but the bone is nearly stripped bare. The various pig parts have had something torn from them, and are mostly a collection of hooves and snouts, things that butchers tend to throw away.

Sherlock leans closer and sniffs, and rears back in revulsion. Some of the meat is rancid.

So the beast steals meat, but only the kind that is no longer wanted. Judging by the quantity, the creature has a rather voracious appetite. He pushes some of the meat aside and finds a few flasks chilling in the ice, along with a crate of apples. Pilfered from a delivery truck, going by the stamp on the damp wood. Omnivorous then, _fascinating_.

The flasks are filled with water, and have a faint tint of metal. Water straight from the pipes then. Easy enough to acquire, if it could locate and swoop in undetected to any water main.

But there's no bed, no nook for personal artifacts. He spots a strangely shaped pile from the darkest corner, and goes to inspect. And it's a heap of...rocks.

Marble, mostly, though there are variations in the striation patterns. Slate, here and there and phyllite in the minority. There in an assortment of sizes, but next to them is a smaller and polished pile. There's a third mound, and Sherlock kneels down in excitement when he notices that they're actually shaped like something.

They're tiny figures, vaguely humanoid, with odd lumps on their backs. Sherlock picks up one, a crudely carved hunk of marble. There are two lumps on the back, and the feet seem to have claws. There are two arms, extended and poised as if ready for attack. It's making tiny replicas of itself?

No. Of course not, stupid. Toys then? Does this thing have _children_? If it does have a nest, it's obviously not here. No, back track. Dangerous to theorize ahead of data.

For all he knows, the creature could just be insanely vain, or this is a hobby to pass the time.

A short examination of the small space reveals a bundle of ratty blankets, cast offs that not even Sherlock's network would use. So it gets cold, or is only subject to extreme cold. Which would be easy enough to achieve this high up, his coat and hair have been flapping in the wind this whole time. Not to mention the icy breeze from the Thames would make this a freezing hell during the winter.

So the creature only has a couple of useless trinkets, a blanket, and rotten meat to its name. No wonder it occupies itself with the criminal underbelly.

But where is it?

The late evening sun allows no hiding places in this vast space, and it wouldn't dare go out when it could be easily seen at this hour. Perhaps it sleeps somewhere else? Maybe this is its search tower? A place to keep its food and "precious" belongings before going on its patrol.

Sherlock can only do one thing now. Wait for it to come back.

But where can he hide? He doesn't dare to go back downstairs and be discovered. He's in open space out on the tower, and trying to hide on the outside would leave him in plain sight of both creature and passerby. 

He's leaning out onto the ledge, surveying the futility of such a spot, when he finds the perfect hiding space. It's a small niche in the brick of the tower against the square room. He can fit into it standing, but he'll be squeezed on either side. Sherlock can think of several worse hiding spaces he's been forced to endure.

He brings both feet onto the ledge, and grabs the pillar to steady himself. He's not afraid of heights, but the gale pushing at his body and the tiny stretch of street below him is enough to make anyone nervous. Sherlock takes a deep breath, and inches his way around the statue blocking the nook.

He presses his back against the wall and feels the brick tugging at the wool of his coat. His arms have to remain stiff by his side in order to accommodate the space. The abrupt absence of the wind brings pinpricks of sensation to his wind-chapped cheeks. Now that he's out of the breeze, he has time to appreciate the cold.

The space isn't a particularly great one for the use of a quick escape. The trapdoor still remains open, but he would have over fifty feet to cover in order to dive down back to the stairs. His only other option offers a higher mortality rate than just confronting the beast.

The setting sun offers plenty of shadow, so his dark curls and coat render him almost invisible. He'll just have to hope that the creature is as unobservant as the rest of humanity. Sherlock wonders when he started banking on pure luck to get him out of dangerous situations.

With nothing to do but wait, Sherlock uses the time to admire the view. From here, the Thames is a thick ribbon of sparkling water, the golden sun bouncing off of the surface like thousands of diamonds. Dozens of boats and ferries top the water like children's bath toys. The light reflected off of the glass of buildings is close to blinding.

The wind muffles any sounds from below, but Sherlock can picture the noises in his head with unerring accuracy. The horns of impatient buses and caps, the click of heels on the pavement, the ringing of tiny bells in shops, and the inane chatter of the public all combining into a life-affirming cacophony.

The stars begin to show themselves in the twilight sky, and the last dash of red sun on the purple backdrop of sky is nothing less than breathtaking. If nothing else, at least Sherlock will have gotten a magnificent view out of-

His mind does something it has rarely ever done before. It stops. 

It ceases its prattling of figures and facts and halts. Because it refuses to compute what unmistakeably just happened.

The statue just moved. And it's doing it again. And again. And again.

Its movements aren't random. From Sherlock can see from its back, the stone is moving up and down in a steady rhythm. It's... _breathing_?

Rock doesn't breathe.

Rock doesn't move.

But this one just did.

The tail, that was indisputably an immovable hunk of granite that was wedged into the brickwork, twitches. The crudely carved wings begin to flutter, the talons gripping the ledge dig in deeper to the stone, and Sherlock is fairly certain he hasn't blinked this entire time.

Flakes of stone fall from the gargoyle to reveal tanned skin. The inhalations become deeper, more aggressive. The tail swings agitatedly from side to side, and Sherlock tries to blend in deeper to the wall to avoid getting hit.

The creature takes one more deep breath, curls in on itself, and **roars**. The sound makes every bone in Sherlock's body shake in fear and awe. The wings fully extend, the width only slightly bigger than the creature's height (but it's crouching, so that should be taken into account), and Sherlock covers his face with his sleeve to avoid the pelting debris.

When he slowly lowers his arm, the creature still hasn't noticed his presence. Instead, it's shaking off the lingering flakes like stubborn drops of water, brushing at his arms to clear the last of it off. He (definitely male) runs his talons (and dear God those things look much more menacing than he imagined when they're this close) through his short sandy-wheat hair.

When the creature is satisfied, it surveys the London night, opens its jaw, (Sherlock can only see the chin) and...yawns.

There is a little tiny part of Sherlock that has probably gone entirely mad. Because he just witnessed a stone gargoyle turn into living flesh from the power of the setting sun and watched it _fucking **yawn**._

Maybe it's his obvious deteriorating sanity, maybe it's the exhaustion from the chase, the fact that he hasn't eaten in over twenty five hours, or maybe it's just from the sheer impossibility of what he's just witnessed. Whatever the cause, it prompts Sherlock to say one thing he's never said before in his life.

"That...was amazing."


	4. First Impressions Are Important

When John awoke, he thought it would be just like any other day. His nightmare hadn't been particularly vivid this night, _Screams, blood, confusion, **Monster**_ , meaning it was already shaping up to be a fairly decent evening.

He brushed off the lingering dust, and gave a loud yawn at the lingering effects of lethargy. Something was nagging at the back of his mind, something important. John scratched his stomach, blinking blearily into the London night.

What was so important? Did he forget something during his patrols last night? No, besides the utter disaster he had left behind, nothing was out of the ordinary. He snuffled, and froze.

Right as he was registering that there was a strange and fresh new scent of _human_ in his nest, John heard a soft exclamation from his right.

"That...was amazing."

John whipped around towards the sound, his wings flared and his tail twitched agitatedly behind him. The human male (tall, dark clothes, too much shadow and the rise from his slumber is briefly ruining his vision so he can't make out any features) backed up further into the wall.

"Who are you?" John snarled, "What are you doing here?" He congratulated himself on how in control he appeared, how intimidating he seemed. Inwardly, he was panicking so badly he was nearly losing his mind. How did this human find him? Was it an accident? Was he being hunted? How many more were there? Was he surrounded? What was he looking for if not him? Oh, Empty Winds, what if this man was just suicidal and he'd picked the wrong (right?) time to try and jump?

"You were stone. And now you're, well, not _human_ , obviously, but breathing. I wonder, is the stone appearance a defense mechanism? Can you move around in the day and just choose not to? No, no the way you awoke, that was nocturnal behavior, certainly. But you can't go into actual respiratory paralysis, how would that even _work_?"

John blinks from the words that come pouring out of this strange man's mouth. Did he even have time to breathe?

This is certainly not the...normal response that humans have when meeting him. The man actually leans closer, and light from below illuminate his sharp features. Instead of terrified and repulsed, this human looks...well, awestruck is one word. Flabbergasted is another.

Eyes that John has only seen in pretty polished stones gleam when they run over his figure. John's wings flutter in self-consciousness. To be fair, under Sherlock's scrutiny, all beings feel exposed.

The man releases a breathy, "Ha, I was right. Bipedal, with sharpened claws on the feet and hands. The tail is a...surprise but, ah, that accounts for the ability to disable several opponents at once."

He becomes even more eager in his speech, and John takes an involuntary step back when he moves forward. His hands jitter by his sides, then move up to cross under his arms, and then he's running one over his mouth while he rests one on his hip. The restlessness, unbeknownst to John, is to keep Sherlock from grabbing the creature by the face so he can affirm that he is indeed a living being and not a delusion of Sherlock's bored mind.

John tries again to get some answers, "Look, um, what are you doing here?"

Sherlock blinks, and finally focuses on John. "Oh, I was tracking you down for the murder and assault from last night."

John's breath comes to a halt. He is being hunted. "You're a constable?" John asks, looking to the wide expanse of sky. It would be the simplest thing to fly away, but he can't just leave. Sentiment keeps him rooted for now. This is his nest dammit, his home. Who is this human to drive him away?

"Constable? Who even says that any-oh. You're older than you look. Much older. How much older?" Sherlock takes another eager step forward, and John's wings expand in preparation for flight. 

Sherlock catches the movement and pure panic that he won't be able to find the creature this time makes him shout, "No! Wait!"

And out of all the pedestrian blunders he could've possibly pulled, he manages to go for the most obvious. His foot slips.

Sherlock has one moment of confusion, a brief vision of the creature's eyes widening in shock, before they quickly disappear from view as he falls from Big Ben.

His impending demise feels...rather nice actually. A pleasant weightlessness, like the hits before they turned just as sour and monotonous as everything else.

It's a shame that light pollution blocks the stars. That would have been an acceptable last sight. Not that the creature is a bad one, far from it, but it does sting that an untapped well of questions will be the last thing he sees on this plane. He didn't even get the creature's _name_. If he had one.

He thinks he catches sight of something hurtling towards him, but it's hard to tell in the dark and the wind is blurring his vision. Sherlock hears something like heavy fabric flapping out to the side of him.

Suddenly, he's not falling down anymore. He's falling...to the side? That can't be right. He looks down to see a pair of yellowed, tautly muscled arms around his midsection. It's like he's being tackled in mid-air, ridiculous as that sounds. And for some reason a very irate man is shouting in his ear.

"Damn it to the Mountains you really are suicidal aren't you?!"

He's roughly positioned so his back is to the gargoyle's chest, being hefted like he's a sack of flour. They soar over the streets for a solid minute, and Sherlock's mind is completely blank for the duration. His feet are left dangling helplessly in the air, and Sherlock's heart jumps into his throat. The creature continues to spout off a litany of rock-based obscenities, and they hover over a nearby roof.

"-and who in the Moon's name decides to try and stop a thing that can fly by almost _jumping_ at it from several hundred feet in the air?!"

He lets go of Sherlock, who has forgotten that he has legs, and he crumbles onto the ground. John glides a little further ahead before landing. He turns back around, an angry expression still on his face.

"I mean at this rate if you're _not_ looking to kill yourself then you're just outright _stupid_ and- oh, oh are you going to be sick?"

Sherlock's not entirely sure himself. He grips the edge of the roof, shakily standing back up. He looks up towards the clock tower that he was just standing at, then down to the streets where people are obliviously walking by, then at the creature that brought him here.

"We just flew," Sherlock breathed.

For some reason, the gargoyle's face contorts into something like embarrassment and he says, "Well, no, actually, I can't really-"

"We were on Big Ben. We were on Big Ben and we just _flew_." He's repeating himself. Is he repeating himself? Sherlock can't tell he thinks he dropped his faculties somewhere on the street that he just **flew over**. He can get them back later.

"Look, again, I can't really fly I can just sort of-" John's cut off by surprise when Sherlock practically launches himself at him.

"Can you do that again? Only can we go over the Eye this time I want to see how many people notice or if they remain completely heedless even when something is _literally_ right in front of them. Or the Thames. Yes, that, let's go over the Thames I'm sure it's gorgeous at night what with all of the reflected lights-no. No let's go to Central London then if we're doing a light show God that must be _beautiful_ ,"

"Hang on-I'm not an entertainment-"

"We'll have to work out a better method of transportation, my shoulders are already sore from that position. Your back is out of the question there's no room,"

"Oh, you bet your bony arse there's 'no room'-"

"I wonder if I can construct something of a swing that you can carry. It shouldn't be too heavy if I distribute my weight evenly enough and what do you mean you can't fly?"

John closed his mouth over his protestations that there was no way in the Four Winds he was hauling him all over London. 

He waited to make sure the man really was done babbling, and answered, "I glide. On wind currents. Which, by the way, are dodgier than you'd imagine so you're damned lucky that there's usually a strong draft up there otherwise we'd both be dead." John's hand lifted, like he was gearing up to poke Sherlock in the chest. But that would only end up doing far more damage than was worth it, so her lowered his hand again.

"Oh," Sherlock looked briefly disappointed, and the expression made John feel a little bit like he was failing the stranger somehow. Which was _completely_ ridiculous, where did that thought come from?

But then the stranger's eyes lit up again, and the feeling was chased away. "But I suppose that would fit your physique, trying to carry your weight would undoubtedly put an incredible strain on your back muscles."

Before John can comment on the 'weight' thing, the man has one of his wings in a gentle yet unyielding grip.

"Oi!" John flexes the appendage, but he doesn't let go.

"Yes, yes this bone structure is far too delicate for something like actual flight. The wing membrane is also too thin for heavy transport, I imagine this functions much like a kite." Sherlock runs a finger over the faintly golden skin, and John jumps away.

Sherlock looks like he's about to protest, though he really has no right to, when he catches the expression on the creature's face. It's hard to tell from the shadows, but he looks like he's actually blushing.

"Look, don't, uh. Don't do that again." John folds his wings protectively around himself, keeping them close to his body.

Then Sherlock's off again, "Oh, that's an ingenious method of adaptability. Does it keep you warm as well?" And he makes a move to reach for it, and stops himself when the creature flinches back.

It doesn't take a genius of Sherlock's level to put together why he would suddenly feel uncomfortable. Inexplicably, Sherlock feels his face warm.

"Ah, I take it the wings are an erogenous zone. My apologies." And Sherlock's eyes almost pop out of his head when he says it. He really means it. He didn't intend to cause the creature discomfort.

"It's alright," the creature mutters, oblivious to Sherlock's reconstructing personality.

At that moment, a cold gust blows over the both of them, and Sherlock involuntarily shivers. He's been outside in this weather all day, when any sane person would want to find shelter immediately. It's starting to affect him, how dull.

The gargoyle notices his discomfort and says, "Listen, you should get inside somewhere soon, it's only going to get colder." John's thinking about how to politely excuse himself, ignoring the odd pang of loss he feels. This human may be interested now, but sooner rather than later it's going to hit home that he killed someone yesterday, and is wanted for it. Better to leave now.

Sherlock sniffles and says, "Quite right, we'll take this back to my flat."

John blinks at him, "Sorry?"

"You'll have to either glide or crawl your way there I'm afraid, can't take you with me in a car. Though I'm sure your methods are far faster, what with all of the dreadful one-way streets." Sherlock is making his way towards the fire escape, eager to get down on the ground. He's still right next to Parliament, he can get a ride from one of Mycroft's doubtlessly nearby lackeys.

He'll owe his brother, but he needs to talk to him soon anyway.

"Hang on a minute!" John protested as Sherlock was descending. He stopped, and looked up from his lowered position on the ladder.

"Problem?"

"You've only just met me, you know I'm a dangerous, supernatural creature and you want to invite me back to your flat? I don't even know your name. Or where you live, for that matter."

Sherlock grinned. It was his turn to show off now. "I know that you have strong moral values for a 'dangerous supernatural creature'. I know that it's probably something to do with most of your family members being murdered. I know that despite living for quite possibly hundreds of years, you still view humanity as something worth protecting. Despite its massive and numerous flaws. I know that you're tired of living alone, and that you wish you had someone to talk to. Well, I'm offering, no strings attached. I think that's enough to be going with, don't you?"

John's arms hung to his sides, and his mouth may have been slightly open.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Follow me if you don't know it, but I suspect you've got this whole city memorized. Evening."

Sherlock slid down the rest of the fire escape, the leather of his gloves skidding against the metal. Dramatics were a terrible weakness with him.


	5. Getting to Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was such a pain to write. I mean, enjoyed it immensely, but oh my goodness if dialogue isn't the bane of my existence. If you notice any inconsistencies, please let me know!

Getting home proves to be an exercise in self-restraint. First, it is more difficult than he could have ever guessed to get one incompetent person to finally give him a ride. Next, it is all he can do to not snarl and pick at the driver's repressed homosexuality when the man drivels on about what an _honor_ it is to work for his brother.

Mycroft's done this on purpose, he knows it. It is only confirmed when the driver makes Sherlock promise to give his brother a call as soon as possible before unlocking the doors. And because the ride was ungodly and the wait for the most glorious thing he's ever discovered was agonizing, he departs with, "Your ex-wife was clearly the more intelligent out of the two of you. Her assumptions were correct and she was right to leave before she caught you tangled in the sheets with another middle-aged man embarking on a sexual awakening."

He slams the door to the man's splutters. Rushing inside of his home, he is again stopped by Mrs. Hudson on the way up the steps.

"Sherlock dear! I'm glad I caught you," Sherlock isn't, but the way her eyes are tightened in worry makes him stop. But he still drums his fingers impatiently on the banister.

"That nice man from the Yard stopped by earlier. He said that he desperately needs to talk to you. He seemed a bit wound up and I think he muttered something about the press and vigilante bears."

Sherlock smirks for an instant and puts on his best placating voice. Though it's a bit tight at the edges.

"Not to worry Mrs. Hudson. I was just about to give him a call with some developments. But I need the rest of the night to myself, if you don't mind."

Normally his privacy isn't a problem, but she's been making a habit of checking up on him recently. The drag between cases always makes her worry that he'll end up putting a hole through something. Again.

But she notices the gleam in his eyes and the energy that vibrates around him. Whatever is going on, it will distract him from damaging the flat. Which, frankly, is all she cares about at this point. She adores the boy, deeply, but there's only so much violin abuse and minor explosions she can take at her age. Sherlock's vaulting up the stairs before she even has a chance to nod.

He locks the door behind him, just to be certain. He strides to the windows, then changes direction halfway to his room. Those look out into the busy and well lit street, and there's not enough space for the creature, no, gargoyle to squeeze through.

There's a door inside of his spacious closet that opens up onto the roof. It had been one of the major factors of moving in, despite the hefty cost of the rent. In his line of work, a quick and hidden getaway in his own home was wise.

But the size might still be an issue, as it is only big enough for Sherlock if he keeps his arms above himself. He frowns and hoists himself up onto the roof.

Here, the cold isn't as bitter as it was on top of Big Ben, but it still bites at his fingers and nose. He looks around, but the gargoyle isn't anywhere to be seen.

Perhaps he wasn't going to come after all. Perhaps he expects a trap, or he was too intimidated by all that Sherlock noticed. Panic seized him at that thought. He was nearly ready to trek back to Big Ben and hunt him all over again before he heard the sudden and soft whoosh of air behind him.

"You know, it's not as easy as you think to try and follow a black car at night across unreliable rooftops."

Sherlock spins around, grinning widely. Despite his annoyed tone, the gargoyle is shuffling his feet slightly, as if he was embarrassed that it took him so long.

"So you don't have the city memorized. Is that out of choice? Or do you just have a terrible memory?" Sherlock nearly bites his tongue. The last thing he wants to do is offend him. Not out of courtesy, but to prevent him from running away.

But the gargoyle merely shrugs, "Bit of both I suppose. I tried once. But you humans change things so constantly it's a wonder you don't get lost trying to go down the street."

It's the reference to time that has Sherlock straightening his spine. He hopes that the gargoyle won't be offended when he asks, "How old are you?"

The man, well, male, blinks. He doesn't look like he minds the question, just that it appeared to be unprompted. A weight settles in his eyes, and he runs a clawed hand through his hair. And isn't that just spectacular, something that was stone mere hours ago now has skin and hair.

"It's 2010 yeah?" The gargoyle asks himself, "So..." he trails off, looking in the distance. Sherlock waits for however long he needs.

His eyes widen and he whistles, "Wow. Um, technically, I'm close to two hundred years old."

Sherlock's eyebrows climb. He had known he was old, older than he looked most certainly, but this completely defied expectation. By appearances alone, the gargoyle hardly looks older than fifty.

Sherlock finds his voice and latches onto the curious adjective, "What do you mean technically?"

"Well I mean, even by gargoyle standards, I'd be pushing it a bit if I were that age. I'm closer to a hundred, when all is said and done."

It's Sherlock's turn to blink, "How exactly do you skip a hundred years of aging?"

"By sleeping for years over the decades," the gargoyle answers like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Understanding lights through Sherlock's eyes, "Your stone state. It's what slows down your aging process."

The gargoyle looks surprised that he figured it out so quickly and nods, "Helps with healing too, mostly." He raises a hand absently to his scarred shoulder. He almost immediately stops and lowers it back to his side.

Sherlock zeroes in on the wound. The street lights are brighter here, but it is still hard to make out in the shadows. He desperately wants to step forward and inspect it further, but manages to reign himself in. A twitch in his hand is the only thing that gives him away. The lighting in his flat would allow him to peruse without being obvious about it.

Sherlock manages to sound nonchalant, "We should get you inside. You're barely dressed."

The wings immediately fold around his shoulders, completely obstructing the view and Sherlock nearly kicks himself. The gargoyle huffs a laugh, "Good luck, that opening is barely enough to fit the bottom of me through. And those windows I saw in the front are too exposed."

He has a complete understanding of his surroundings, and how to utilize them. Sherlock doesn't know how this...male, could possibly surprise him more.

"Guess your only option is the front door," the gargoyle grins sardonically. Then he stops when he sees the expression on Sherlock's face.

"Wait, I was joking. That wouldn't actually work-Sherlock!" he hisses after the man as he slides back through the opening in the roof.

Sherlock, of course, ignores him. He grabs a spare bed sheet on the way out of his closet. He flies down the stairs, but is sure to make as little noise as possible. The hallway and the door to Mrs. Hudson's is dark, but that doesn't mean she's fallen asleep just yet.

He leaves the door open when he goes outside, carrying the bundle in his arms. There's a side alley right beside his flat. Narrow and dirty, but hopefully large enough to accommodate the gargoyle.

He whistles, long and trill, hoping no late night strollers take notice. Though they hardly see anything that isn't in blazing neon in front of their eyes. A shadowed figure peers over the ledge before disappearing.

Sherlock think he might have to try and convince him to come down, but then the gargoyle is crawling quickly down the wall, wings tucked in to prevent any damage. Sherlock immediately realizes that he desperately wants to see this magnificent creature fly without being carried.

What must it be like, to see that compact and lethal frame finally allowed to stretch and expand to his full capacity? It must be beautiful.

The gargoyle stands in front of him, but he is hunched. He continuously looks over Sherlock's shoulder, clearly ready to bolt to the relative safety of the rooftops if anyone comes near. Sherlock needs to get him inside before he takes off again.

"Here," Sherlock says, handing him the sheet, "you can wrap this over yourself."

The gargoyle takes it, but raises an incredulous eyebrow at the fabric. Sherlock only calls it an eyebrow because he can't think of another word for it. Where there should be smooth bone and slight gatherings of hair, the gargoyle seems to have a more pronounced forehead structure. It looks like thickened skin or bone ridges. Possibly even horns. Sherlock bounces on his feet in a burst of impatience.

"Right, because someone, possibly naked, wrapped in a sheet in the middle of the night is going to attract less attention is it?"

Sherlock huffs in irritation, "Less so than a being with wings and talons. Your skin is fortunately similar to someone who has been abroad in a warm climate for some time. If it were something more...exotic, we may have had a harder time of it."

The gargoyle still looks unsure, so Sherlock speeds it along, "It's either this, or you can go back on the rooftop and I can find a saw to make the opening bigger."

The gargoyle laughs for a second, then sees the stone seriousness in Sherlock's gaze. John blinks in surprise.

He unfolds the sheet, and wraps it around himself. The edges graze the dirty pavement, mostly covering his feet if he stands still. He pulls enough of the fabric over his head to throw his features into obscurity. When he's done, he looks like a crazy person wrapped in someone's sheets.

Perfect.

Sherlock quickly checks the street for any passerby. When he sees none, he quickly motions for the gargoyle to follow him as they dart up the steps. The actual event of getting into the flat passes by without a snare. Mrs. Hudson has learned not to engage Sherlock when an apparent case is underway. And the hurried sound of footsteps up stairs will be unlikely to rouse her from sleep anyway. The woman has learned to block out violins screeching at midnight.

Though, it is a bit different when the footsteps include a being that nearly steps _through_ the staircase. They creak and groan as if they're being murdered, and the gargoyle flinches visibly every time. Sherlock reaches the top of the landing and looks on in bemusement as he inches his way upward.

It is also a fantastic opportunity to observe the way he walks. While a human would walk on the flats of his feet, the weight evenly balanced on the balls and heel, gargoyle walks exclusively on the tips. His talons scrape and click along the wood, no matter how much the creature tries not to let them.

It should leave him overbalanced, the weight making him top heavy, but he clearly is used to walking like this. Though not in a confined space and not with fragile woodwork underneath him. He's clearly used to stone and concrete, which is easily able to support his weight.

It's a bit like watching a self-conscious elephant in a china shop. Sherlock quickly suppresses the resulting smirk when the creature darts a look back up at him.

But John catches the look of mirth in Sherlock's eyes and frowns anyway. "If you weren't barking mad enough to carve a hole in your own ceiling, this wouldn't be happening," he hisses.

Sherlock has nothing to say to that, but he doesn't attempt to hide his smile this time. The gargoyle reaches the last step, and has a brief moment to look relaxed, before his foot predictably goes through a weak spot in the wood.

The crack resounds like gunfire. John reels back, letting go of the sheet and it falls silently down the steps. The tan brown skin is free for Sherlock to inspect, but he's too busy reaching.

He's ready to pull him out with thoughts of bleeding and possible infection running through his mind. But the gargoyle just quickly shifts his weight forward before he can topple down and pulls his foot out of the hole. He's on the landing with Sherlock, but he quickly whips back around, nearly hitting Sherlock with his tail in the process.

He assesses the damage with a distressed groan. It's completely caved in the middle and leads down to a dark and dusty part of the flat that was never meant to see sunlight since it was built.

"Moon above I'm so sorry," John apologizes. "I knew this would happen. I should've stayed outside."

Sherlock's been unabashedly staring at the gargoyle's back, documenting feverishly how the skin and bone connect to incredibly powerful shoulders. He's pulled out of his reverie when he mentions 'outside'.

"Nonsense," Sherlock says, almost ready to shove him inside of the flat, or at least give it a good try. For a creature that can eviscerate a dozen armed thugs, he's incredibly bashful about his own presence.

"Mrs. Hudson's been complaining about the rot for months," Sherlock lies. "You've just hastened renovations. Come inside."

He's holding open the door, because it gives him something to do besides try and coax the gargoyle inside. He's certain that any pushing on his part will only cause him to become increasingly stubborn.

John looks at Sherlock's offer, then back to the base of the stairs. He could easily glide down and leave if he wanted to. John rubs a clawed hand across the back of his neck, back at the strange man he only met just this dusk, and again to the door leading to the relatively safe London streets one more time.

He's not sure if it's curiosity or excitement that makes his heart thunder loudly in his chest, but John squeezes sideways through the door leading into Sherlock's flat. He doesn't see Sherlock momentarily slump in relief before closing the door behind them with a soft click.

"By the rock, what's happened to your flat?" Sherlock turns around in alarm when he hears the outcry, but nothing is amiss.

Unimportant papers are strewn about everywhere. Half drunken mugs and an assortment of pecked at plates are cluttered close to one another and are quite possibly permanently stuck to the tabletops. Half of his books are in their proper place on his shelf, the rest are on the sofa or the floor. His experiments have completely taken over the kitchen, and it's a wonder Mrs. Hudson is able to enter there anymore without having a conniption fit.

The stale stench of tobacco ash hangs in the air. His laptop is located on the only clean surface. Newspaper clippings are tacked onto a board he hung above the mantle. This has been stabbed through with a knife that was attempting to disembowel the snide telegrams from Mycroft about his inability to keep a flatmate as well as a few red lettered bill notices.

Perhaps the assortment of specimens and bones is what's putting the gargoyle off. But, no. He doesn't seem like the type to be unsettled by that sort of thing. He looks at the gargoyle to see if he's looking at what his attention was originally drawn to, but he's looking at Sherlock now, slightly abashed.

"Ah. Yes," Sherlock coughs, understanding now, "I've been meaning to tidy up. Just haven't found the time."

He's grateful the creature doesn't know his daily patterns. Otherwise he'd know how obvious of a lie that was.

“Oh,” says the gargoyle, rubbing the back of his neck, “well, it’s, nice. Ignoring the clutter it’s very…eccentric.”

John attempts to shuffle his feet, but the resulting noise makes him stop immediately. He doesn’t want to put a hole through the floor on top of everything else.

To break the sudden tension, Sherlock clears a space on the sofa, and motions for the gargoyle to sit. But he shakes his head, holding up a claw in defeat.

"I'd only break it," he explains, sounding rather put out about that fact. 

Sherlock's quite at a loss of what to do. He'd wanted to interrogate him, find out everything he could before the sun rose again or he fled back into obscurity. But here, in his flat, it all seems so very real; and he's having a rather hard time processing the information that a mythical creature is standing in his living room.

So he does the only thing he can think of. He goes to make tea. He's halfway to the kitchen, leaving a confused gargoyle standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor, before it occurs to him that he might not even be able to _have_ tea.

Omnivorous, yes, but who knew if the gargoyle was allergic to certain leaves.

So he turns around to ask, for the first time since he was a boy and was forced to impress Mummy's guests, "Would you like some tea?"

And the gargoyle's face is suddenly filled with an overwhelming amount of greed that it makes Sherlock's eyebrows raise. Quickly, he brings it back under control, but there's still a desperate hope in his eyes.

“Uhm,” he coughs, “yes, please.”

Sherlock departs without another word, and John thinks he might have come off as offensive, until Sherlock’s voice filters back from the kitchen.

“So how long did you live with humans?”

Sherlock looks back from filling the kettle when the gargoyle doesn’t answer. He sees the bewildered expression and drawls, “It wasn’t that difficult of a leap. Your apparent fanaticism over it would suggest that you haven’t had it in some time, but have had it before. A fire would be too noticeable inside of Big Ben, and your provisions would suggest that you take nothing but the barest necessities. So you can’t or won’t make it yourself. Someone must have supplied it to you. I would suspect someone with either an incredibly progressive mind or, perhaps more likely, blind,”

He turns the stove on, facing the gargoyle once again, and pulls a face at the frown the gargoyle sports,

“No offense,” he waves his hand, rolls his eyes, and continues, “so, how long did you live with humans?”

The gargoyle said nothing at first, just gaped at him. Sherlock wondered if perhaps he had overstepped, when he sputtered, “That was, I mean, besides the blind thing,” Sherlock opens his mouth, “yes, I know, you only meant it because it’s the most likely option. I’m not offended, really. It’s just, that was…you got all of that based on my vivid craving for tea?”

“Like I said,” Sherlock shrugged, “not that difficult of a deduction.”

“Are you being modest? You? Because you _really_ don’t seem like the kind of man who’s modest.”

“What do you mean?” Was Sherlock supposed to be genuinely offended by that? Or was the gargoyle…teasing him?

“By the moon, I mean that was brilliant.”

Sherlock blinked, “Really?”

“Yes,” he nodded, “is that how you found out all of that stuff about me from before? From something I’d said?”

“Well, no,” Sherlock concedes, still visibly stunned from the compliment, “that was from your dwellings. And your actions from dealing with criminals.”

He picks up again, going back to his natural rhythm of deduction. John is hypnotized by the cadence of Sherlock’s voice as he says, “You’ve had multiple dealings with criminals, well, thugs really. And you’ve left them incapacitated or maimed whenever you deal with them. You do this mainly to intimidate and deter others from doing the same, though it also does a marvelous job of discrediting anything the brute has to say. Some may believe in a rogue boxing champion gone vigilante, but only the desperate or insane will trust the story of a winged assailant.

Any casualties have been either accidents or self-defense. Last night was proof enough of that. You could have easily dispersed of all of those men, yet you only killed one. The rest are in the hospital, some in critical condition, but more than likely they will survive. So you don’t impart final judgment, you don’t think that’s your place. But why? Why go to such lengths to spare the lives of worthless men?

Because you hold yourself to high standards. You follow a very strict moral code. One that you would never break. Because that would place you in the same category as the people that senselessly murdered your entire family.

Now _that_ conclusion comes from your dwellings. You had several stone figurines lined up along your wall. They were in varying states of shape and some were made from different colored stones. There weren’t very many, as I imagine that marble and even quartz is harder to come by than simply pilfering a water system. None of the figures bared your resemblance, so they’re not a mere hobby of carving.

And given your phrasing of expletives and physical nature, stone is very important to you. So you wouldn’t waste it on anything frivolous. You have no way of taking pictures, but you’re old and therefore have memories you wish to preserve. You must have had interaction with your species in the past, your psychology is remarkably similar to that of humans, and therefore it’s not entirely impossible that you’re also a social creature. So, on your own, lonely, barely thriving, why not go to one of your own kind for help?

Pride is one theory, but in your state, desperation would have far excelled pride. So, you are simply unable to seek help. You have no one to aid you. And you whittle away on pieces of rock to remember the ones you did have.

Their murder was done on a massive scale, with someone you previously trusted. Clearly, your most vulnerable state is between when you’re stone and when you’re flesh. Given on how long it took you to notice me standing behind you, even with superior senses, your sense of instinct and reaction is dulled considerably in this time frame. So a someone, or more likely several some ones as it would take a large group to take you all down at once and wasting time proving themselves would eat up valuable collaborating, literally and metaphorically stabbed you in the back. You trusted these people with the information you gave them about your kin, and they exploited it for a doubtlessly pointless reason.

Now, I know that you clearly view humanity as something you believe is worth risking your life for. Otherwise you would have either secluded yourself up in that tower, or become a vengeful and indiscriminate serial killer, or you would have possibly committed suicide. Yet you patrol the unsavory parts of London as if they were your battlefield and you were the soldier.

What I can’t possibly fathom, is _why_? Why risk so much after having been betrayed for a people that never thank you, never know what you do, never see you as anything more than an urban legend?” 

Sherlock is panting by the end, for the last part had almost been entirely shouted. During his tirade, he hadn’t realized how much this gargoyle perplexed him until just now. There had been the thrill of discovery, the disbelief at his actual existence, but now there was frustrated anger. He had just laid out most of this creature’s history, and it was infuriating to Sherlock. By all rights, the gargoyle should be an embittered and heartbroken mess. Not a well meaning vigilante that lived up to higher codes of morality than any human Sherlock had ever met.

There was a distant screeching in the background, and it took him a full second to realize it was the kettle. How long had that been going off? He stomps to the kitchen and fills the mugs, not having looked at the mythological creature in his sitting room the whole time. Reflecting on his words, Sherlock realizes that he may have overstepped himself for good.

The gargoyle is practically a hardened war veteran, has been alone for more than a hundred years, protects the city he loves literally with tooth and nail, and Sherlock just spat all over his beliefs.

He turns around, holding two mugs in his hand, and fully expects the room to be empty. Despite the fact that he would have heard him treading down the stairs no matter how quietly he moved over the floor. Instead, the gargoyle is still standing there, but his face is completely neutral.

At a loss of what to make of that expression, and maybe the look is meant to foretell a vicious attack, Sherlock simply sets the tea on the coffee table. He flings himself across the couch, waiting for the gargoyle to say something biting or make his way out the door. Instead, a clawed hand reaches for its separate mug and says,

“That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard.”

Sherlock blinks, looks at the creature’s face for a trace of mockery, but none is there. There is only open and pure wonder.

A warm feeling blooms in Sherlock’s chest that has nothing at all to do with the tea. He’s about to say something that is sure to place his foot firmly inside of his mouth, but the gargoyle speaks first.

He moves his tail out of the way, and sits down cross legged on the floor in front of Sherlock. If it’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t show it.

“It’s John, by the way.”

The look is John’s clue, and he explains, “Well, it’s a bit of a moot point, since you already know my life’s story from some bloody statues, but my name is John.”

Sherlock’s silent, then he rolls the word off of his tongue, “John.”

He nods, blows over his tea, and John takes his first sip of tea that he’s had in decades. It burns his tongue a bit, but from the way his eyes flutter closed, he doesn’t terribly mind.

Sherlock sips his as well, but can’t seem to find the same spectacular flavor John is currently experiencing. But he doesn’t really care.

“Strange name, for a gargoyle, John,” Sherlock muses.

He snorts, and takes another greedy swallow of his tea before answering, “And Sherlock is any better?”

The man grins and responds, “Touche.”

“It’s how I got my shoulder wound. From the attack on my clan,” John says.

Sherlock nods, waiting for the thing that is clearly on John’s mind.

“But I’m not…I’m not the only one left alive.” John doesn’t look at Sherlock. And the detective is too stunned to respond from the sheer weight of that confession.

“I think…I think I would like to tell you everything else.”

Sherlock sets the tea down for fear of splashing it all over his lap. He folds his hands, and waits. After a heavy sigh, John takes another drag from the mug, downing the rest of the contents. It must hurt, but the line between his brows tells Sherlock that he can’t feel it.

John sets the mug to the side, breathes in deeply, puts his palms on his thighs and starts with, “I woke up in pain.”


End file.
